The Misguided Matchmaker (2 page)

Tristan
scowled. “I know Sarah too well to believe she will stop loving you simply
because you’re no longer rich.”

“Of
course she won’t, any more than I will ever stop loving her. But think you
Viscount Tinsdale will give his only daughter to a pauper, even if that pauper
carries the title of earl? Or that I love Sarah so little I would ask her to
share my life when I have nothing to offer her but shame and deprivation.”
Garth shook his head vehemently. “No, once I know the very worst of my
situation, I will find the strength to cut my ties with her.”

Garth
straightened his narrow shoulders in a proud gesture that made Tristan ache all
the more for his unfortunate brother. He found himself grateful that his was a
heart inured to such longings. From what he had seen of love, the pain of it
far outweighed the joy.

“What
you need right now is a stiff drink to dull the pain,” he declared decisively.
“And I am not the least bit averse to helping you drown your sorrows. What say
you we raid the cellar in the hope there may still be a stray bottle of French
brandy lying about? I’ve acquired a taste for the stuff in the past six years.”

Garth’s
smile looked a bit ragged at the edges. “A splendid idea,” he said somewhat too
heartily. “But first, I have something I want to give you.” He pulled a gold
pocket watch from the drawer of the library desk and handed it to Tristan. “It
is one of only two personal items our father hadn’t disposed of at his death.”

Tristan
viewed the ornate timepiece with distaste. “Thank you, but I have no desire to
keep a memento of the old libertine who never even acknowledged me as his son.”

“Keep
it in the same spirit I keep his jeweled snuffbox,” Garth said grimly. “As a
reminder of everything that is evil and depraved—everything I am determined I
shall never become.”

The
offices of Harcourt Shipping Ltd. were housed in a nondescript two-story
warehouse overlooking the sprawling Billingsgate fish market. Tristan and Garth
had driven in from Winterhaven in the old earl’s sporty phaeton—not the easiest
of vehicles in which to wend one’s way through the milling crowds of
lower-class housewives and upper-class servants haggling with the stall owners
over turbot, salmon, lobsters, and eels, as well as the various other fruits of
the sea served on London dinner tables.

The
pungent aroma of fish was everywhere. It overrode the stench of the ancient,
refuse-covered desks and the masses of unwashed humanity crowding the busy
market, and it set Tristan’s already queasy stomach to rolling dangerously. The
nocturnal search Garth and he had made of the Winterhaven cellar had yielded
not one, but two bottles of vintage brandy, and they’d managed to consume them
both before the cold gray light of dawn reminded them they had an appointment
with Caleb Harcourt in but a few brief hours.

Now,
with a wintery sun torturing his bloodshot eyes and the voices of the fish
hawkers thrusting javelins into his aching head, Tristan gritted his teeth and
prayed as much for a settled stomach as a clear mind when he and Garth faced
the powerful cit who held the fate of the Ramsden family in his hands. With
shaky hands, he pulled the phaeton to a stop before a door with a discreet
brass plate bearing the name Harcourt Shipping Ltd., tossed a coin to the
urchin who acted as carriage tender, and helped his exhausted brother alight
from the passenger’s seat.

A
moment later, they entered the building and to their surprise found the inside
to be as elegantly austere as the outside was shabby. The massive waiting room
into which they’d stepped was complete with colorful Axminster carpets,
Hepplewhite chairs, and a collection of paintings as impressive as those in the
gallery at Winterhaven before the Fourth Earl denuded it to finance his
addiction to the ivory turners.

Blessing
of all blessings, the aroma of fish had not permeated the walls of Caleb
Harcourt’s tasteful
sanctum sanctorum
. Instead, a spicy fragrance teased
Tristan’s grateful nostrils—the source of which was explained by a sign,
“Harcourt Fine Spices and Exotic Herbs,” at the foot of an open staircase
leading to the floor above. He pointed it out to Garth. “You were right.
Shipping is only one of Harcourt’s enterprises.”

At
least two dozen men, in identical dark coats and breeches, stood in small
groups about the room conversing in the hushed and nervous tones one might
expect of men awaiting an audience with the Regent at Carlton House. All
conversation instantly ceased when Tristan and Garth entered the room and
removed their high-crowned beavers. The reason was patently obvious. Though
their coats of fine
marcella
were drab and outdated by
ton
standards, next to these somberly clad men of the merchant class
they looked like two peacocks in a flock of barnyard geese.

The
door had barely closed behind them when a wizened little man, dressed all in
black with a bagwig on his thinning gray hair and what looked suspiciously like
house slippers on his feet, shuffled over to them. “My Lord Rand?” he inquired,
peering from Tristan to Garth over his wire-rimmed spectacles.

“I
am the Earl of Rand,” Garth said stiffly. “And this is my brother, Lord
Tristan.”

“Of
course. Ephriam Scruggs at your service, sirs.” The little man bent over in a
bow that threatened to land him flat on his face at their feet. Righting
himself, he declared, “The cap’n’s been waiting for you. Turned meaner’n a
snake when you wasn’t here an hour ago. I’ll just nip in and tell him you’ve
arrived.” Turning on his heel, he shuffled back across the room and disappeared
through a heavy oak door. Moments later he poked his head out and crooked his
finger at Garth and Tristan.

Garth’s
already ashen face blanched a shade whiter. “What kind of madhouse have we
stumbled into?” he whispered.

“Courage,
brother,” Tristan whispered back as they crossed the waiting room under the
scrutiny of dozens of watchful eyes. “I’ve a feeling the worst is yet to come.”

Caleb
Harcourt’s small private office was even more elegant than his anteroom, but
the giant of a man who stood behind the carved rosewood desk looked as if he
would be more at home on the deck of one of his ships than in his present
surroundings. His deeply tanned face had the look of old leather, his salt and
pepper hair was unfashionably long, and his black topcoat, while superbly cut,
looked as if he’d slept in it. He surveyed them with frank curiosity. “Which
one’s the earl and which the bastard?” he asked in a booming voice.

Tristan
saw Garth stiffen in anger. “I am Tristan Thibault,” he said quickly. Harcourt
was obviously an insufferable boor, but he held all the aces in this particular
game; to rile him now would be sheer stupidity.

“Castlereagh’s
favorite spy, or so my sources tell me.” Harcourt’s shrewd eyes held an odd
look akin to respect. “Thought you were in Vienna.”

“Your
‘sources’ are behind times, sir. I hope you haven’t overpaid them. I’ve been
back in England these three days.”

To
Tristan’s surprise, Harcourt threw back his leonine head and roared with
laughter. “Insolent pup. But you’re right. My high-priced informants will find
their pay packets a bit thin this quarter.”

His
attention turned to Garth. “And what have you to say, my lord? Or do you let
your brother do your talking for you?”

Garth
pulled himself up to his full height, which was still a head shorter than
Tristan and shorter yet than the giant cit. “I speak for myself, sir, when I
have something to say. At the moment, you have me at a disadvantage, all things
considered.”

Harcourt
tapped a stack of papers on his desk with the tip of his index finger. “A
considerable disadvantage, I’d say. But sit down and we’ll talk about it.” He
indicated two chairs and promptly seated himself behind his desk. “No use
trying to wrap it up pretty. Your father was the sorriest excuse for a man as
ever God created. The only thing worse than a drunk and a womanizer is a card
cheat—and he was all three. Left you in the suds, he did, and that’s a fact.”

Tristan
exchanged a telling look with Garth at this cit’s audacity, but there was no
disputing the truth of his words.

Harcourt
leaned across the desk. “Don’t suppose you have any idea how you’re going to
take care of your mother and sister, not to mention the poor souls starving to
death in those broken-down tenants’ cottages on your estates.

The
shocked silence in the small room was as thick and cold as a London fog.

“Just
as I thought,” Harcourt said, as if by remaining mute, Garth had as much as
admitted he had no idea how to solve his financial problems himself. The big
man sat back in his chair, a satisfied look on his weathered face. “Very well,
my lord. Here’s my proposition, plain and simple. I’ll cancel out the mountain
of debts you inherited and advance you enough blunt to put your estates on a
paying basis…providing you agree to two things.

Tristan
met Garth’s look of astonishment with one of his own. They had discussed a
dozen possible outcomes to this meeting during their long brandy-soaked night;
an offer to put the Earl of Rand’s affairs in order was not one of them. As
one, they turned to face the man behind the desk. “What two things?” they asked
in unison.

“First,
my lord, I want you’re promise you’ll work at restoring your estates
yourself—not simply turn the task over to a bailiff. I’ve no use for a man,
titled or not, who’s afraid of work.”

Garth
swallowed hard, obviously choking on the pride he was forced to swallow. “I
shall devote every waking hour to bringing things about if we come to an
agreement.” He swallowed again. “My interests are of a more sober mien than
those of my father.”

“Not
right off you won’t,” Harcourt declared. “I’ve a more important piece of work
needs doing on the Continent and it just occurred to me you’re the very one to
do it, since my sources tell me you know France better than most Frenchies.” He
raised a hand to forestall Tristan’s objections. “It won’t take but a fortnight
or so, and since this whole scheme with your brother hinges on it, I’d advise
you to think twice before you turn it down.”

Tristan
gritted his teeth. He didn’t like the implied threat in Harcourt’s words, but he
had no choice; for his family’s sake, he had to listen.

Harcourt
leaned his elbows on the desk and tented his fingers. “It’s like this. My
daughter, Madelaine, is living in Lyon with her maternal grandfather, a
Frenchie count, but the old tartar sent word he’s dying and he doesn’t want
Maddy left alone when he sticks his spoon in the wall. Well, neither do
I
, so I want you to go get her. I’ll send you to Calais in
one of my brigs, and my captain will wait there while you see Maddy safely from
Lyon—a task that should be relatively easy for a man with your background.”

Tristan
gave a noncommittal grunt, deciding it prudent to hear the rest of this cit’s
demands before he made any promise.

Harcourt
then turned to Garth. “Which brings us to the second term in our proposed
contract, my lord. What I want from you in exchange for saving your bacon is a
written promise that once Maddy gets here, you’ll make her your countess.”

The
faint, hopeful color that had bloomed in Garth’s face for a few moments receded
like the tide vacating a beach, leaving him as pale and gray as a piece of
sun-bleached driftwood. “You want me to mar-marry your daughter? I have never
met your daughter.”

“Of
course you haven’t. Haven’t seen her myself for fifteen years. Her mother went
haring back to France, with Maddy in tow, once she found the titled biddies of
the London
ton
wouldn’t give a common merchant’s wife the time of day.
I’d but one ship then, which I captained myself, so I hadn’t the wherewithal to
do anything about it. The situation is different now. I’m a rich man and I’m
determined no door in London, including that of Carlton House, will ever be
closed in Maddy’s face. And if spending a fortune to see a title tacked onto
her name is what it takes to ensure that, then so be it.”

Harcourt
pounded his fist on the desk with such force his inkwell skipped to within an
inch of the edge. The sound drove through Tristan’s aching head like a team and
four. Only by sheer willpower did he keep from moaning aloud.

He
could see Garth was beyond worrying about appearances. Eyes closed, he pressed
his shaking fingers to his temples, as if the combination of Harcourt’s bizarre
proposition and the after-effects of too much brandy had pushed him beyond his
limits.

Harcourt
waved the stack of vowels before Garth’s nose. “Take my offer, my lord. Or
leave it and suffer the consequences. You may be the pick of the litter, but
you’re not the only impoverished nobleman in England.”

Garth
groaned.

“How
many men in your situation get the chance to put their affairs in order and
take on a fine strapping wife to boot?”

“Strapping?”
Garth echoed faintly. His eyes were closed and his complexion had taken on an
oddly bilious tinge.

Tristan
eyed his whey-faced brother nervously, but Harcourt didn’t appear to notice
that anything was amiss. “So then, what do you say lad?” he demanded in a
hearty baritone that reverberated through the small room like a clanging gong.
“Is it agreed then—a fortune for a leg shackle?”